


Six Millennia is a Long Time to Pine

by sadieb798



Series: Six Millennia is a Long Time to Pine [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angel Sam Wilson, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky also thinks Sam is Fine, Bucky is Crowley, Demon Bucky Barnes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Hydra is Hell, Instead of Queen the Bentley plays Radiohead, Janelle Monae - Freeform, LA directions, LA traffic, Light Angst, Los Angeles, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Pining, Radiohead, Religious Content, Religious Discussion, Religious Humor, Sam is Aziraphale, Sam thinks Bucky is F I N E, Slow Burn, The Author is God, WinterFalcon - Freeform, agnostic at best, all bow before me, as fluffy as an angel's wings, the Bentley makes an appearance, using Good Omens canon as the basis for this, yes I'm aware that that's GO but it applies here too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: “Just tryin’ to make conversation, sweetheart.”“Don't call me sweetheart."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Series: Six Millennia is a Long Time to Pine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622278
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> _crawls out from the Pit, slaps down the first part of this new series._
> 
> This was _supposed_ to be done in last September for Sam's birthday bang, but I got acute bronchitis that knocked me out the entire month of October, and I couldn't work on it at all so I had to drop out. 
> 
> BUT TODAY - _TODAY_ \- we are blessed.
> 
> In honor of the F&TWS trailer dropping, here's a fic about a demon and an angel falling in love that takes an embarrassingly long time.

**IN THE BEGINNING**

“Well, that could have gone better,” Samuel said as the only humans on Earth were evicted from Eden.

“You’re telling _me,”_ replied the demon from beneath the shade of The Tree.

Samuel - or as he’ll go by for the rest of time ‘Sam’ - frowned. He was an angel in both the metaphorical and literal sense of the word. To be more specific, he was the guardian of the South-Western Gate of Eden, and it was his job to watch over each and every bird in the Garden. He was excellent at his divine duty and enjoyed it immensely.

Sam flicked his eyes over at his unwanted companion, the source of the trouble.

Angels, like demons, are issued corporeal bodies from their respective departments. This Sam knew and was well-aware of: his own body had a warm sepia skin tone that was beautiful, especially on sunny days, with dark eyes and a gap between his front teeth that Sam personally thought was one of his best features. Despite there not being any mirrors yet, when Sam caught his reflection in ponds, he _knew_ he looked good and wasn’t ashamed to admit it; God knew what she was doing when she issued him this body.

The demon on the other hand just _had_ to choose a body that was obnoxiously good-looking.

That square jawline was sharp enough to cut down a legion of angels all on its own, and his dark wavy hair looked silky smooth as it cascaded down his shoulders - and Sam couldn’t overlook those striking, pale blue-gray eyes. They looked like the sky before those storm clouds above Eden started rolling in.

Aside from the obvious, it was interesting to compare their differences. Sam couldn’t stop himself from looking at the demon's dark wings, not like tar or the sky after midnight, but like a raven's - down to the streaks of blue and purple shining through in the right lighting.

He was temptingly beautiful to the point of it being annoying. 

Sam shook his head, forcing those thoughts out. He remembered what it was like experiencing brotherly love between his once-fellow angels, and he saw enough down on Earth to know the difference between the two types of love that Greeks will one day call _eros_ and _philia._ Sam also knew that as an angel he has an instinct to find and admire the beauty around him in God’s creations - but it’s one thing to admire the dove and another thing to find a _demon_ beautiful.

_There’s_ literally _nobody worse,_ he told himself. He dragged his head back to their original conversation. Right: the humans. 

“Come _on,”_ Sam accused the demon - his _divine, fate-assigned enemy_ , he pointedly reminded himself. “You _tempted_ them into this, you knew what you were doing.”

“Not really,” replied the demon with a shrug, surprising Sam. “I was just told ‘get up there and cause trouble’.”

“Well, congrats - you did it,” retorted Sam, turning back to the storm clouds gathering above the Tree.

The demon rolled his eyes. “Kinda seems like an overreaction, if ya ask me,” he said.

“I didn't."

The demon pouted, turning his blue eyes back to Sam, who was doing his best trying to ignore him. “Just tryin’ to make conversation, sweetheart.”

“Don't call me sweetheart - uh,” Sam blinked, his eyebrows furrowing together. "Sorry, what’s your name?"

“Barnes,” Barnes offered.

“Sam,” said Sam with a decisive nod. _It's only polite,_ he rationalized. 

“It just seems to me, these kids shouldn’t be thrown out over one tiny little thing," continued Barnes. "If what they did was _so_ bad, why was the tree here in the first place? God was askin’ for trouble.” He gave an effortless shrug. “But then, what do I know?”

“Not much,” Sam agreed, and Barnes snorted. “Look, it’s not like She tossed ‘em out with no good reason," Sam defended. "There’s Right, and there’s Wrong. If you’re told to do Right and you do Wrong, you’re gonna be punished for - oh.”

Barnes turned his head away, and Sam averted his gaze, biting his lower lip. An awkward pause hung between them, the only sound was The Tree’s rustling leaves. The demon flicked his eyes over the angel, watched as the dappled lighting from the leaves above them played along the grey and mottled white feathers of Sam’s wings.

Despite the threatening dark clouds looming overhead, the Garden was lush and verdant. The animals, freshly named, cowered from the growing storm. Beneath The Tree, angel and demon watched it all. 

"What if we got it ass-backwards?" Barnes asked after a while. Sam quirked an inquisitive eyebrow in his direction. "What if we did the right thing, and your guys did the wrong thing? A demon could get into a lotta trouble for doing the right thing."

Barnes gave Sam a smirk, his eyes glittering like they're sharing a joke. Sam's left wing twitched; the smirk made him unsettled, like he was falling instead of flying.

"Wouldn't that be funny?" asked Barnes, his voice as smooth as honey. 

"No," replied Sam solemnly. “It wouldn’t.”

"Yeah," Barnes said soberly, his smile falling as he turned his attention to the thunder growling above them. "Guess you’re right."

They watched the first raindrops bruise the petals of the first flowers. It was going to be a dark and stormy night.


	2. A Little Bundle (Of Hate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Already?” Bucky couldn’t help but ask.  
> “Of course,” Zola replied. “Hydra's great moment of triumph is here at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 30th Anniversary of _Good Omens_ was just the other day, and - since we all need a little cheering up - I told my anxiety to stop fucking around and post the next chapter to this fic already. Hopefully, it was worth the wait!

**ELEVEN YEARS AGO**

_Inglewood, California. The United States. North America._

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

In fact, it rarely is in Southern California, especially during this time of year. It _should_ have been a dark and stormy night, but that’s the weather for you. Many a young enterprising mad scientist was very upset with their local weather person, disappointed that the weather didn’t cooperate with the tone of whatever machinations they wanted to get up to. And, to add further insult to injury, Mom reminded them to brush their teeth.

But the indigo tinged sky told another story. One that said: stay in tonight. Dark creatures with dark purposes would be ready.

Two of them were lurking in Inglewood Cemetary on the night our story technically begins. One figure was perched above a headstone, smoking a cigarette, while his companion stood beside a tree. 

These are two Dukes of Hell and they are The Fallen. And they hate waiting.

"He's _late_ ," said the figure on the headstone in a gruff voice; his eyes narrowed in disapproval. This particular Duke was called Rumlow. He was a broad man with a square jaw, and he might have been handsome In the Beginning, but not since he Fell*. “The Asset should have been here _hours_ ago.”

(*During the Great Battle of Heaven, Rumlow was severely scarred in the face by none other than the guardian of the South-Western Gate of Eden, Samuel. You know the one.)

"Patience," said the other Duke with a Swiss accent, who was referred to as Zola. He was smaller than his compatriot, with a bespectacled rat face, but he was twice as cunning and just as mean. He took the round spectacles off his nose and began cleaning them methodically. "Barnes will be here soon."

Rumlow scoffed in disgust, the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Shows how long it's been since you were here. He doesn't go by that anymore. Calls himself _Bucky_ these days."

Zola frowned, his eyebrows wrinkled together. "What an odd choice of name," he said as he returned the spectacles to their place above his nose.

"Does a lot of odd things," replied Rumlow, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Been up here too long.”

In the distance, they heard the growl of a motorcycle's engine. It was soon followed by a headlight that flashed in their direction as it rolled up the driveway.

“That’s him,” nodded Rumlow, tossing his cigarette onto the earth, leaving it to smolder the grass. “Like a flash in a pan.”

“What _is_ he driving these days?” asked Zola, squinting.

“A motorcycle. They’ve updated them since you were last up here.”

Zola _tsk_ ed, disappointed. “So impersonal, I always preferred the automobiles I saw at the turn of the century. Such wonderful machines to commit evil in.”

Rumlow hummed in agreement.

The motorcycle came to a stop some good feet away. Eventually, the bike shut off as its driver dismounted and approached them. Gravel crunched beneath the Asset's boots as he sauntered over towards the two Dukes.

“Is he wearing sunglasses?” asked Zola, tilting his head in confusion.

“Yep,” sneered Rumlow.

The other Duke frowned. “But it’s _night.”_

“Yep,” Rumlow repeated before he raised his voice. “Hail Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra,” Zola echoed.

“Heya fellas,” said Bucky, taking off his gloves. “Sorry I’m late, you would not _believe_ the traffic, but that’s how it is on the 10 to the 405 at Inglewood. I ended up taking the 187 and getting off at La Cienega, but - ”

“Now that we’re all _here,”_ Rumlow growled, his face twisted with disgust. Bucky snapped his mouth shut, thankful to Satan he was wearing his sunglasses so the Duke couldn’t see it as he stared at the ground beneath his feet. “Let’s get down to business. Zola.”

Bucky almost flinched, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. Instead, he held his head high. _These rituals are bullshit,_ he thought bitterly.

“Soldier,” ordered Zola, a smile spreading across his rat face.

Bucky resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot. "Ready to comply," he dutifully murmured, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

Zola reached behind the headstone Rumlow had been draped across and pulled out a wicker picnic basket.

“Here is your next mission,” he said, holding out the basket.

Bucky stared at it uncomprehendingly. He’s proud to say that his hands barely shook as he reached out for the basket’s handle.

“You’ll receive your instructions,” Rumlow scowled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

“Already?” Bucky couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course,” Zola replied. “Hydra's great moment of triumph is here at last.”

“Why so quiet, Barnes?” asked Rumlow, gleefully. “You should be celebrating.”

“Where am I supposed to put - ” Bucky cut himself off before he could finish that sentence. Calling his boss’s son _the little bastard_ would _not_ go over well if it made it's way back Down Below. “Well, I mean, I don't have a car."

Zola grinned, the glasses of his round spectacles flashing. "It has already been taken care of."

Behind Bucky, there was a loud, grating noise; metal being twisted and reshaped. He glanced over his shoulder, and instead of finding his trusty motorcycle, there was a shiny, deep green 1943 Bentley waiting for him. _Well, that's one problem solved_ , he lamented, twisting his lips into a sardonic smile.

"Alright," Bucky said, flashing his teeth at the Dukes in what he hoped was a pleased grin. He turned on his heel and walked over to the car as one would walk toward a guillotine. “Do svidaniya.”

The two Dukes watched as the car pulled out of the driveway and disappeared from sight.

* * *

Bucky hurtled through the night, driving like a bat out of hell.

“Shit shit shit shit _shit_ ,” he muttered, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.

After a cursory glance around the car’s interior, Bucky found the only piece of modern technology inside was a radio, but even calling it _modern_ was generous. The bulky hunk of machinery was lifted straight out of an 80s movie, cassette tape player and all.

Bucky shuddered, remembering the winters in East Germany and the hair he had sported at the time. _Satan, it was so_ cold _._

"Rumlow must've had some influence here," he apologized to the car, picking up a tape at random from the scattered tapes on the passenger seats. "Nostalgic sonovabitch _loved_ the age of excess."

Bucky pried the tape out of its plastic case while keeping his eyes on the road and crammed it into the radio's mouth.

The familiar sounds of Radiohead washed over him. “Why now? Why me?” he asked desperately. _There are_ literally _thousands of demons to choose from._

 _BECAUSE YOU’VE EARNED IT, BUCKY,_ Thom Yorke said, speaking suddenly through the speakers of the Bentley.

Bucky held his breath, his heart thudded in his ears. Like every good idea he’d ever had, Management down below had fucked it up. Instead of just using WeChat, or WhatsApp, or even _Slack_ like any other evil, self-respecting corporation to send messages, they just cut into whatever Bucky was listening to. This was fine when Bucky was desperate enough for a baseball game he’d watch the _Yankees_ , but not so great if he got caught up in a playlist Sam had made for him.

“Thanks, Lord,” Bucky replied. He dug his fingernails into the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. A bead of sweat wanted to roll down his face, but he ordered the sweatdrop _not_ to move from its spot.

 _WE HAVE GREAT FAITH IN YOU, BUCKY._ _REMEMBER IF IT GOES WRONG, THOSE INVOLVED WILL SUFFER GREATLY. EVEN YOU BUCKY, ESPECIALLY YOU._

“Understood, Lord.”

_HERE ARE YOUR INSTRUCTIONS._

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath as what felt like cold long fingers reached through his skull and touched the corners of his brain. He closed his eyes and, just like that, he knew. He always hated that. They could have just _told_ him to take the kid to the airport, fly to England* to a little town called Rye and take the kid to a hospital, instead of just air-dropping that information into his brain like he was a shitty computer from Apple.

(*Privately Bucky thought Below was being Euro-Centric but kept his mouth shut on the subject of colonial empires.)

“Leave it to me, Lord.”

 _GOOD._ _He's bitter and twisted, he knows what he wants…_

Bucky grimaced behind his sunglasses. “Great. Just great,” he hissed, squeezing the wheel between his fingers. “And here I was just starting to _like_ the twenty-first century. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

He used one trembling hand to brush through his dark wavy hair, his sunglasses-clad eyes stayed on the road as the scenery changed from a blur of green to concrete sound barriers.

Truth be told, Bucky had grown to like the world. Sure he wasn’t completely jazzed about the animals, but he was always amazed by what humans could do; that innovation and determination, it was something he loved watching evolve with every passing decade.

But there’s no getting out of this one. Bucky can’t be a demon _and_ have free will.

_He wants us to listen, he wants us to weep -_

“That’s enough,” he told the radio and the music cut out entirely. 

Bucky raised his hips, eyes locked on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, while with his other, reached into the back pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out his phone. Once it was out in the open, he plugged it into the auxiliary cord that had miraculously come into existence and scrolled through the music until he randomly selected a playlist he’d downloaded earlier.

Immediately the dulcet tones of Janelle Monáe came through the speakers.

Bucky minutely relaxed, the tension he’d felt before bleeding out of him. “Sam always knows what I like,” he said, smiling softly, the ember in his chest that was reserved for the angel warms.

He flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror, eyeballing the quiet parcel in the backseat. 

Armageddon might not be happening this year, but with that little shit in the back, it meant that the end of the world was a sure thing instead of a theoretical, sometime-in-the-far-off-future problem.

The world, for better or worse, had eleven more years left to turn.

“At least I still have time with Sam,” Bucky consoled himself, selfishly grateful for that much. He’s liked the angel since The Beginning - it wasn't hard to like Sam. He wasn't uptight like the other angels Bucky had come across: he was all sass and spitfire, and Bucky was fascinated by him; taking every advantage offered to him to spend time with his “nemesis”.

_Oh how, oh how I need you baby. To keep me from going crazy..._

But that path of thinking has started to come with a minefield of problems that Bucky isn’t nearly brave enough to face on his own without a bottle of gin. For a start, the awkward little fact that he’s in love with the angel.

The revelation that he’s been in love with his best friend happened back in the 60s and it's taken him about fifty years to get used to it. If Bucky really lets himself think about it, he'd conclude that he's been in love with Sam ever since he saw the way the light touched his warm skin in Eden and it’s just gotten worse from there. Those rich dark eyes made him shiver, and that gap-toothed smile alone could turn around Bucky's whole day.

Hell, just thinking his _name_ makes Bucky’s breath catch and his insides twist together like a basket of snakes.

But Bucky isn’t under any illusion that he deserves him. He’s a literal demon, and Sam is so _good,_ so unattainable, that it’s almost depressing to think about. So he’s satisfied with just hanging out with him, being friends with Sam is as close to Heaven as Bucky’s ever gonna get and that’s just fine with him.

 _Case in point:_ Sam _isn’t the one that has to deliver the Antichrist_ , Bucky thought with a sardonic twist of his lips.

“Sam would still know what to do,” he muttered morosely.

His train of thought came to a sudden stop, screeching so hard on the tracks that there must have been sparks. And Bucky Barnes, Demon Below, the Asset, and the Winter Soldier experienced a moment of absolute true Clarity.

He jerked the wheel, his car broke across four lanes of traffic, with more than a few blared horns following the car down the highway. The Bentley raced down the black road, and even with the Instructions in Bucky’s head and every instinct in him screaming to drive to the airport, to get back on the freeway, to _stop and turn around -_ he headed in a new direction.

“Just a little detour,” he told himself with gritted teeth.

 _How I need you, baby, I need you right by my side,_ the radio replied. _I need you tonight. I need you tonight._


End file.
